What Will Matter: Video (4-mins.)

Happy Christmas Everyone!

During the next few days in the buildup to Christmas we will be taking a rest from politics. Feel free to enjoy (or ignore) the off-topic subjects on offer. A good time to chill out, take stock, indulge in nostalgia and post your own poems or philosophical musings on the meaning of life, death, or whatever else takes your fancy.

Kind regards and blessings to friends and enemies alike! 🙂  (LD) 

VIDEO : 4-minutes

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Lasha Darkmoon

Dr Lasha Darkmoon (b.1978) is an Anglo-American ex-academic with higher degrees in Classics whose political articles and poems have been translated into several languages. Most of her political essays can be found at The Occidental Observer and The TruthSeeker. Her own website, Darkmoon.me, is now within the top 1 percent of websites in the world according to the Alexa ranking system.

13 thoughts on “What Will Matter: Video (4-mins.)

  1. For the little German blonde she goat , with big blue eyes , with many different names , that brings Joy To The World , & never stops butting its head against the Vatican walls :

    Eighth Poem of
    THE KEEPER OF HERDS

    ON a noon of a day at the end of a spring
    I had a dream just like a photograph .
    I saw Jesus Christ come down to earth .
    He came along a hillside
    And had turned into a little boy again ,
    Running and rolling on the green
    And tearing out flowers to throw them away
    And laughing so you could hear afar .

    He had run away from heaven
    He was to much ours to pretend
    He was the second person of the Trinity .
    In heaven all was false , all in discord
    With flowers and trees and stones .
    In heaven he must always look very serious
    And once in a while become a man again
    And climb on the cross and keep on dying
    With a crown of thorns around his head
    And his feet nailed by a big nail ,
    And even wearing a cloth about about his loins
    Like black slaves in the old pictures .
    He wasn’t even allowed to have mother and father
    Like other children .
    His father was two people —
    An oldster called Joseph , who was a carpenter ,
    And wasn’t his father ;
    And the other father was a stupid pidgeon ,
    The only ugly pidgeon in the world
    Because it wasn’t the world’s and wasn’t a pidgeon .
    And his mother hadn’t loved before bearing him .

    She wasn’t a woman she was a suitcase
    In which he had come down from heaven .
    And people wanted him , born only of his mother ,
    Who never had a father to love with respect ,
    To preach goodness and justice !

    One day while God was asleep
    And the Holy Ghost had gone flying ,
    He went to the miracle box and stole three .
    With the first he made nobody know he had escaped .
    With the second he made himself an eternally little boy .
    With the the third he created a Christ eternally on the cross
    And left him nailed on the cross there in heaven
    Which is the model for all other crosses .
    Then he fled to the sun
    And came down the first sunbeam he caught .

    Nowadays he lives with me in my village .
    He is a natural child with a huge grin .
    Cleans his nose on his forearm ,
    Splashes all over mud pools ,
    Picks up flowers , loves them and forgets them .
    Throws stones at donkeys ,
    Steals fruit from orchards
    And runs away from dogs screaming and crying .
    And , because he knows they dislike it ,
    And everybody else thinks its funny .
    He runs after country girls
    Who go flocking down the roads
    Carrying jugs on their heads
    And throws their skirts way up .

    He taught me everything
    He taught me to look at things .
    Points out to me all the things there are in flowers .
    Shows me how stones are funny
    When we have them in our hand
    And look at them very slowly .

    He tells me nasty things of God
    Says he is a stupid sickly old man ,
    Always hawking out phlegm all over the floor
    And babbling obscenities .
    The Virgin Mary spends eternity’s afternoons fornicating .
    And the Holy Ghost cleans his feathers with his beak
    And perches on chairs and dirties them
    All in heaven is as stupid as the Roman Catholic Church .
    He tells me that God perceives nothing
    Of the things he made–
    “Supposing he made them , which I doubt”–
    “He says , for instance , that all beings chant his chant his glory ,
    But beings don’t chant .
    If they chanted they would be singers .
    Beings simply are ,
    And that is why they are called beings .”
    Then , tired of belaboring God ,
    The Child Jesus falls asleep in my arms
    And I carry him home cradled on my breast.

    ———————————————————————-

    He lives with me in my cottage halfway up the hill .
    He is the Eternal Child , the god that was missing .
    He is the human that is natural ,
    He is the divine that laughs and plays .
    And this is why I know with with full certainty
    That he is the true Child Jesus .
    And the child so human it is divine
    Is this my daily poet’s life ,
    And it is because he is always with me that I am always a poet ,
    And my least glance
    Fills me with sensation ,
    And the very least sound , of whatever coming ,
    Seems to talk to me .

    The New Child that dwells where I live
    Gives me one hand and the other to all there is
    And so the three of us go along any way there may be ,
    Skipping and singing and laughing
    And enjoying our common secret
    Which is to know wherever we go
    That there is no mystery in the world
    And all things are worthwhile .

    The Eternal Child is always my companion .
    The direction of my glance is his finger pointing .
    My hearing gladly attentive to all sounds
    Is his playful tickling of my ears .

    We get along so well together
    And together with everything
    That we never think one about the other ,
    But live together and two
    In intimate accord
    Like the right hand with the left hand .

    At dusk we play marbles
    Sitting on the doorstep ,
    Very solemn , as is fitting to a god and a poet ,
    And as if each marble
    Were an entire universe
    And as if it were very dangerous
    For it to go astray .

    Then I tell him stories of things only of mankind
    And he grins , because it is all so incredible .
    He laughs at kings and those who are not kings ,
    And is sorry when listening of the wars ,
    And the businesses , and the ships
    That leave smoke in the air of the high seas .
    Because he knows all this misses that truth
    That a flower shows when it is flowering
    And that walks with the sunlight
    Varying the valleys and hills
    And dazzling the eyes from whitewashed walls .

    Then he falls asleep and I put him to bed
    I carry him in my arms into the house
    And lay him down , slowly taking his cloths off
    As if following a very clean ritual
    And all maternal until he lies bare .

    He sleeps inside my soul
    And sometimes wakes up during the night
    And plays with my dreams .
    Puts others on top of others
    And claps his palms alone
    Smiling in my sleep .

    ————————————————————————-

    When I die , my little son ,
    May I become the child , the little one :
    You put me on your lap
    And take me me inside your house .
    Strip my tired and human self
    And lay me down on your bed .
    And tell me stories , should I wake up ,
    Until I fall asleep again .
    And give me of your dreams to play
    Until I am born any day
    That you know which will be .

    ——————————————————————-

    This is the story of my Child Jesus .
    What reason is there that one can see
    Why it shouldn’t be
    A truer story than what thinkers think ,
    And all religions taught me ?

    By Alberto Castro
    { Fernando Pessoa }
    A . ‘ . A .’ .
    Argentum Astrum

  2. call no man father .sorry santa, st john golden mouth warns against judaizing, such as christmas being a man made festival, I think I shall heed st john and wish no man happy christmas.

  3. I swear
    From eye lashes I shall weave
    A kerchief for you
    And weave on it a poem for your eyes
    ………………………………
    ……………………………………
    I shall write on it a sentence that is
    Dearer than martyrs and kisses;
    “She was a Palestinian and she is still so”!
    I flung the doors open to the storm
    ………………………………..
    ……………………………………….
    Virgin mate, faithful wheat
    Palestinian are your eyes and tattoo,
    Palestinian is your name
    Palestinian are your dreams and concerns
    Palestinian is your scarf, your feet, your form,
    Palestinian are your words and your silence
    Palestinian is your voice
    Palestinian in life and in death,
    I hold you in my old books
    A fire for my songs…….

  4. TO CHRIST ON HIS BIRTHDAY
    BY Fadwa Tuqan

    Lord, glory of the universes
    On your Birthday this year
    All the joys of Jerusalem are crucified
    All the bells, O Lord
    Are silent!
    For two thousand years,
    They haven’t been silent on your birthdays
    Except this year
    The domes are now in mourning
    Black is wrapped in black
    On the Via Dolorosa,
    Jerusalem is whipped
    Under the cross Bleeding
    On the hands of the executioner.
    The world is adamant to the tragedy
    The light has departed from that lost ruthless master
    Who did not light one candle
    Who did not shed one tear
    To wash the sorrows of Palestine
    The vinedressers have killed the heir, O Lord
    And usurped the vine
    The vinedressers killed the heir, my Lord
    The bird of sin has feathered
    Within the sinners of the world
    And flew to desecrate Jerusalem’s chastity
    What a cursed devil he is,
    Even hated by the Devil.
    O Lord, glory of Jerusalem
    Out
    of the well of agony
    Out of the abyss
    Out of the recesses of night
    Out of the horror
    Jerusalem’s groaning ascends to you
    Mercy, lord
    Spare her this chalice!

    1. Thanks Dagger, Fadwa Tuqan got heart and talent.

      And because I am a total cripple at poetry, here is the one mailed to me by Mike King of Tomato Bubble.

      ‘Twas the night before Future Christmas
      When all through the land
      Not a Commie-Pinko is stirring
      The Reds had been banned

      Central Banking abolished
      Gold and silver restored
      Wall Street is tamed
      Their ox has been gored

      Taxes are light
      With budgets in balance
      Freed of debt slavery
      Folks discover their talents

      Hollywood is wholesome
      Filth and porn no more
      Kim Kardashian is history
      That dirty little whore

      The culture is reborn
      The end of modern art
      Rockwell and Rembrandt
      Replace Picasso, that fart

      America is at peace
      To the Zionists dismay
      No more wars for Israel
      Hip Hip. Hooray!

      The press is now free
      Of lies and omissions
      Conspiracies are exposed
      Not concealed by Commissions

      Jobs are plentiful
      The middle class booms
      Welfare cheats face reality
      And forced to push brooms

      The border is sealed
      Illegals denied entry
      Problem solved
      It was so elementary

      Traditional morality
      Now back in fashion
      As adulterers and queers
      Conceal their dark passion

      The crime rate has plummeted
      As all citizens are armed
      All those dead Trayvon Martins
      Made the criminals alarmed

      Justice has been served
      With Obama and Bush in jail
      Predator Drones and Smart Bombs
      Got them arrested without bail

      Academia is cleansed
      Of false science and history
      The truth of our past
      Is no longer a mystery

      The Fuhrer’s great name
      We did restore
      No longer to blame
      We admire him more

      A girl is a girl
      And a boy is a boy
      Families are happy
      Homes full of joy

      If this kind of world
      Sounds appealing to you
      Then support TomatoBubble
      Because we want it too!

      By Mike King

  5. Just sent a selection of poems in an e-mail Lasha, but, for some reason, my e-mails are still in the outbox..

    Will take the liberty of re-posting them here:

    Harry and Ollie.

    Harry the heifer, and Ollie the ox
    were one day shooting the breeze,
    Harry said it was time, to go back to the farm,
    where the clover was up to his knees,

    Now Ollie had spent all his days `tween the shafts
    of a cart, pulling loads, which caused him to wheeze,
    now all that he wanted, was to know how it feels,
    to graze in a meadow with grass round his heels..

    Elk`s End.

    The train was heading north from Grong,
    when an elk jumped on the line,
    he didn`t know to watch for trains,
    or that this one was on time.

    he slithered down a slippery slope,
    and didn`t know what hit him,
    or why his life was filled with pain
    forever, ad finitum.

    The train reversed back down the track,
    To see if his end was nigh,
    Then the train went on it`s merry way,
    And left him there to die.

    Poor guy survived the August cull,
    With hunters out to catch him,
    Now men with guns would hurry out,
    In order to dispatch him.

    Advancement and progress are part of the plan,
    But it`s nature which suffers, much more than the man..

    OF FAIRIES AND ELVES

    The Fairy and the Dwarf

    A fairy and a dwarf one day
    Were busy making toast,
    The fairy asked “Shall I tell you things,
    That I enjoy the most”.

    The dwarf he said “Do tell”,
    The fairy said “Here goes!”

    I like to have a nose,
    ten fingers and ten toes,
    To wash my hair in dewdrops,
    And scent it with a rose,
    And my fairy feet in shimmering hose.

    The dwarf said “your so lucky
    That you like so many things,
    And the one thing that I envy
    Is the fact that you have wings
    Being short and hairy
    Depresses me no end
    And that is why I`m grateful
    To have you as a friend.”

    Fred and Saul after the Ball

    The atmosphere was ugly at the dingle dell cafe´
    The dwarfs and elves were spoiling for a fight
    The trouble had been brewing since the ball on new year`s day
    And the fairy queen was trying to put things right

    “You ran off with my fairy” cried a dwarf who`se name was Fred
    “She wasn`t yours” yelled back an elf called Saul,
    “Her and I were going steady since the twenty first of May
    And I`d bought a ring to give her at the ball”.

    “You`re lying through your teeth” cried Fred,
    “It simply isn`t true, in April she agreed to be my wife,
    I got down on one knee the day I took her to the zoo,
    and said that I`d protect her with my life.”

    He sounded so convincing, and he had an honest face,
    The other dwarfs confirmed that what he said was true,
    They agreed to boicot fairies, to put them in their place,
    Then went to town and downed a pint or two

    This is just a selection, there are more, hope you like them..
    Would like to dedicate the one I posted yesterday to Harbinger, the one about the reindeer, if he`s still around.
    I`m sorry he stormed off, I just can`t help yanking his chain, and like him really, even though he hates me..

    All the best for Christmas, and the coming year, Ingrid B..

  6. SOROR (Mystica)

    Yes, gently and with childish hesitance
    the man relaxed his grip
    and softly as a butterfly
    I landed on his arm
    his daylight world now gone
    his thoughts no more, but mine
    I am the teacher of his kind.

    Come then the desert mountains
    the hidden springs and mimes
    the sunlight on adobe, the planes
    that slowly fall from azure skies,
    the parchment scrolls, the petroglyphs,
    the girls with smooth white thighs.

    He knows there is no origin
    he knows he will not die.
    You see, I am the teacher of his kind.

    -S.W.

    “Dreams ask us something, and we don’t know the answer; they give us the answer, and we are astonished.” -J.L.Borges

    1. @ S.W.

      This is high-quality verse. The beautiful images and sound effects in the penultimate stanza are particularly impressive:

      Come then the desert mountains
      the hidden springs and mimes
      the sunlight on adobe, the planes
      that slowly fall from azure skies,
      the parchment scrolls, the petroglyphs,
      the girls with smooth white thighs.

      I really do believe that the best poets today remain unpublished, refusing to submit their precious writings to the pretentious poetry magazines edited by effete, politically correct, pseudo-intellectual academics who are subsidized by governments grants.

      And so, sadly:

      “Full many a gem of purest ray serene
      The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
      Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
      And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

      1. @ ANONYMA,
        Thank you for your kind and gracious words. They mean a lot to me. I wish I could give you measure for measure, joy.
        You and I and Thomas Gray all have seen that our common dirty streets sparkle with silver and gold, diamonds are scattered among working-day crowds, and everywhere walk angels, gods and goddesses.
        Insofar as we are granted this discernment, only then, haltingly and word-lost do we dare write.
        Mostly we can only point.

      2. SW,

        Didn’t expect to hear from you again. Thought you were in and out with a quick poem and not very interested in the usual subject matter of this eccentric site. (“Eccentric” used literally, i.e. off=center).

        I don’t think the management would mind all that much if you posted the odd poem here from time to time. It welcomes all sorts of “off-topic” comments provided the off-topic comments do not intrude too obviously into the discourse and do not occur on Day 1 of the discussion. Any off-topic post on Day 2 of the thread (or thereafter) appears to be quite acceptable on this site. LD herself loves poetry, so that’s another plus factor for the publication of poems here in the Comment section.

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